'I think,' I say slowly, 'You've got too many metaphors here.' It's something I hear myself commenting relatively frequently to the writers who proffer up their poetry, short stories, even novels, for my comment (or feel compelled to do so because of my status as tutor). I love metaphor. I love how they startle, how they appear unbidden, how they say more than the sayer could ever think to say. But, I've always held, the secret is to peel through to the core of a metaphor, not trip lightly through a whole allotment of them.

And for me that was the one down side to Your Last Breath by curious directive at the SJT (26th April). It was a wonderfully slick and compelling performance piece using drama, music, dance and video projection which intertwined four narratives from four different time zones. Ambitious to say the least which almost came off. I say almost, because I have to query, wasn't there too many metaphors?

Breath and breathing; bodies and their constituents; frozen (landscapes, bodies and emotions); maps and cartography. All fabulous metaphors which I adore exploring. It's just that, wasn't there three too many for the seventy minutes? Or perhaps I am going to be called old-fashioned, like those who still claim you can't start a sentence with and.